


The Thousandth Man

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is NOT AT ALL like "The Thousandth Kiss." Well, barring some soft underlying sentiment, but it's very much under the radar. One can see this as having elements of Johnlock or Mystrade, but it's really a friendship story. </p><p>At the foot of the story is a poem by Rudyard Kipling, that is the source of the title. I picked it because, while I don't myself do Johnlock, it does describe the intensity and singularity of the friendship between John and Sherlock. I wanted to try to do a John and Sherlock story. Mycroft and Lestrade ended up getting involved as equal players. </p><p>Hope y'all like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thousandth Man

“You could stop this.”

Mycroft Holmes shook his head, eyes fixed on the monitor, where events could be seen unfolding. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t. Not at this stage. Not without blood sacrifices.”

Lestrade’s mouth tightened. “If not now, when?”

“Later. When the focus has shifted. When my action won’t lead to the United States pulling support out from under eight of my operatives in the Ukraine—and that’s if we’re lucky. When it is no longer so public an issue. Right now the damage would be devastating. The CIA  _needs_ to be seen to do this. Any interference will have to come after the bread and circuses.”

It was more answer than Mycroft would normally give anyone but his very few peers: Lady Smallwood and the other members of the Star Chamber. Occasionally Her Majesty or the Prime Minister, if they had some pressing need to know, though for most things they were second-tier and out of the loop. Lestrade knew he was privileged: Mycroft would say to him what he’d say to no one else.

All that really meant, though, was that Lestrade carried the burden of pushing the Great Enigma harder, forcing him to process all the implications.

“Do you have a time set for intervention, then? The date red-lettered in?”

“Sarcasm hardly becomes you, Lestrade.” Mycroft turned away from the screen and turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. “Who made you my conscience?”

“As I recall—you did.”

Mycroft grimaced—but with a wry, resigned amusement. “I suppose I did.” He glanced at the screen again. “She knew all the risks. As it is, in the end she’ll be in better shape than she was previously.”

Lestrade continued to study the screen. Mary Morstan Watson, currently identified as Anne Gracie, formerly a Regional Advisor for B_W_ Security Consulting, was being taken into custody by British bobbies working under the direction of an American CIA officer. She stood straight, chin high, mouth a tight line. “Hard on her. Hard on them all. John. The baby. Sherlock.”

“They’re strong.”

“Do they know you’re already cutting deals to get her back out—with a proper pardon? Do they know how much of what she did was done as a double agent, and helped them break Blackwater?”

“No.”

“Do John and Sherlock even know this is coming?”

Mycroft shuddered. “Dear God, no. They’re out of town. With luck the arrest will be accomplished hours before they even hear about it.”

Lestrade frowned. “Dammit, Mycroft…” Then, “You missed you bet. Damn. John, no…”

Mycroft looked over. “Bugger.”

If you weren’t observant you’d miss it—the sudden shudder of action at the edge of the crowd; the surge of officers pushing forward to block off anyone trying to reach the prisoner and her entourage of captors. Between the dark uniforms and black and white caps, Lestrade could see John, face simply wrecked—torn apart by too much emotion. Anger, grief, fear…

“Bugger,” Mycroft said again, his voice tense. “They were supposed to be tied up dealing with that jewel robbery in Cambridge…”

John was battling to get through the line of the guards, arms crossed and elbows forward, head tucked in, turning himself into a battering ram. Behind him—

Now Lestrade swore. “Sherlock, too. Mycroft, do—“

“Already on it,” Mycroft snarled, even as he opened a connection with one of his many minions. “Jesperson, what the bloody hell is happening down there? No, they’re going to get hu— Bugger! Move, you useless lackwit!” He didn’t bother to hang up, just stood staring as the scene on the screen fell apart.

oOo

“John, no, you’re going to get—“ Sherlock fell silent, then, as John surged forward, as batons came into play, as Mary whirled and shouted, as guns were suddenly revealed by the men and women flanking her, as John went down…

He threw himself over John’s body, raising one arm to deflect the batons. A second later he knew his arm was broken. Still he curled over his fallen friend.

Mary was shouting, he could hear her in the background, voice high and frightened over the murmur of the mob and the swearing of the police and the guards.

For one frantic second he was trying to logic out a way to be in two places at once—to lie arched over two bodies. The gun went off, then, and the entire world shrank down to only one. He lifted his head, briefly, looking between the forest of legs, and saw Mary’s body beyond, her face blank and shocked and empty. So empty.

John screamed.

“No. No. No. No.”

The smaller man crept along the pavement, one elbow gripping down, fingers clawing concrete. He crept another foot, carrying the full weight of Sherlock and several members of the London Constabulary.

“No. No. Mary. No….”

“Get off,” Sherlock shouted at the nearest policeman. “Please, God, get off, she’s his wife.”

The officer swore, and got a firmer grip on John’s tweed jacket and the collar of his plaid shirt.

The view of Mary closed, as emergency workers pressed in. Sherlock noted the ambulances and backup police had been arriving, the sirens blaring, the whole time. Fast, he thought. Moving fast. Someone’s watching.

“No,” John cried. “No. Mary…”

They snapped cuffs on both Sherlock and John, then. Sherlock quickly discovered that no attempt to learn more of what’s happened to Mary was any use.

He and John weren’t even put in the same cell…

oOo

“No, Agent Novaks, you listen. If you do not move immediately to remove your officer from his position, permanently, as of this minute, my complaints to your department head will not be limited to reckless endangerment, unwarranted activity in _my_ precinct, under _my_ jurisdiction, and injury of an agent carrying dual citizenship. If you do not remove Carsstairs from duty, I will start taking this case personally, not just professionally.” Mycroft glanced at a tablet, and back. “I would, for example, be interested in tit for tat. A Mary for a Mary.”

The CIA agent blanched, then scowled. “You can’t do that. Threaten my family like that.”

“So I would have thought, also,” Mycroft said. His voice was smooth, and chill, and polished, like perfect linen sheets in winter. “You appear to have missed a crucial detail: Anne Gracie, her husband, and her child are, by somewhat complex routes, to be accounted as _my_ family. That’s not counting her service to my nation—and yours—over the past years. Decades. I was making every reasonable effort to ensure your Agency got the cooperation it needed, in spite of that. And, yet…” He tipped his head, studied the American agent. “I could have so easily protested you taking her into custody. I did not.”

“She still has to…had to…” Novaks blinked. “She should have stood trial.”

“Unfortunately, that will no longer be possible. Will it?”

“I… Mistakes were made.”

“Yes. They most assuredly were. We’ve located the source of the leak to Dr. Watson and my brother, by the way. Your second in command apparently thought their resistance to Anne Gracie’s imprisonment would make good theater back in the States. Show the Agency’s resolve in the face of British sentimentality.”

“I…Um. I…”

“That makes two idiots under your command, sir. One who thought to use Sherlock Holmes to promote CIA interests _at my nation’s expense._ The other, so help me, was stupid enough to draw and fire on a cuffed, unarmed woman trying only to reach her frantic husband. Where _do_ you find your people, Agent Novax? Or do you breed them specially from low-IQ parents, and feed them up on lead and mercury contaminants?”

Novaks glared pure vitriol across the desk at Mycroft, but the Great Engima proved immune. At last the American agent sighed. “All right. It was fubar. I admit, it went to hell. But—“

“No buts. I went to the trouble of setting it up for you. Anne knew, and was going willingly without putting up a fight. She even helped make sure her husband and their best friend—my brother—would be out of town when she was taken into custody. The child wasn’t on the premises. You had a simple, well-constructed, no-trouble pick-up. And now you’ve killed your target, in the process ensured my brother and Anne’s husband were traumatized, and bolloxed up the entire situation. Not to mention having earned no small degree of hostility for you nation among the highest powers in the land.”

“Meaning your hostility.”

“Don’t be smart, Mr. Novaks. I assure you, I’m the smart one. Now, you’re going to do as I suggest. You’re going to do it quickly, quietly, and without complaint. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Mr. Holmes.”

“Good. First, you are to make a public apology to the government and constabulary of Great Britain for putting civilians at risk and mismanaging the arrest of a suspected war criminal. By abject, I mean, ‘low enough to crawl under an adder’s belly.’ Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Once that has been reported, I shall return the body of Anne Gracie to you in a sealed coffin, to be returned to your forensics department. You will collect it, and you will deliver it unopened. Is that understood?”

“But—I have to confirm I’ve got the—“

“Call your department head, Mr. Novaks.”

“I—“

“Call your department head.”

Ten sweaty, tension-filled minutes later, Mr. Novaks closed his mobile phone and said, quietly. “You’ll have my full cooperation, sir. And Mrs. Gunning says to she’s ready on her end and will be in touch with you as soon as the coffin has been transferred into my care.”

“Very good,” Mycroft said. His smile was prim, totally artificial, and quite final. “That being the case, I believe there’s no more to say. I expect notice of your agent and your second-in-command’s removal from their positions by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and don’t expect them to be returning with you immediately. I believe they’re going to discover they have some problems with their passports.”

“But—“

“That will be all, Mr. Novaks.”

“But—“

“All.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door of Mycroft’s office was well-oiled and beautifully balanced. It closed silently behind Agent Novaks. Only when the American had left did the mastermind of MI6 drop his face into his hands and give a weary, regret-filled sigh.

oOo

“John…”

John didn’t answer. Instead he sat in the armchair of his and Mary’s townhouse, his face set in silent grief.

“John…Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?”

Sherlock didn’t like admitting he was frightened, but he was. John was lost, somewhere, and Sherlock didn’t know how to follow. This wasn’t what he did. It wasn’t his skill set. Not his division, as Lestrade would say. Not his circus, not his monkeys. And, yet, John…

John was lost, somewhere, and someone had to find a way to bring him home.

“PG Tips? And there are jammy dodgers…”

John didn’t answer. Sherlock went out to the kitchen anyway, struggling to work one-handed, swearing at the inconvenience of a cast on his right arm now, of all times. Kettle off its stand, placed under the tap. Tap turned on. Tap turned off. Kettle back and turned on. Tea bags located, jammy dodgers located, now, where did Mary keep that plate she used to serve cookies on?

Mary…

He blinked. His eyes hurt, he thought. What now? Why did his eyes hurt? He had to make tea. He dredged out mugs.

_John’s mug, with the Arsenal canon, Mary’s… no. Leave Mary’s. Grab the one she always reserved for you, with the goat looking down its nose, and then wipe your eyes. You can’t let John see you like this._

_John sees nothing right now. You could cry the ocean dry and he wouldn’t notice a thing, even if his armchair floated away._

“Here. Hot tea, jammy dodgers. Damn. Sorry. Hard to put the tray down with the arm in a cast. Sorry. Sorry. It’s mostly all still in the mug. Here. John?  John, you have to drink something. Eat Something.”

John finally focused on Sherlock, and said, bitterly, “The fuck I do.”

“John…”

“You drink it.”

“John…”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You won’t. You’ll stay here to take the baby when Mrs. Hudson gets here.” John boiled up out of the armchair, furious, snatched his coat from the coat closet, and was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Sherlock sat wearily. His eyes hurt again. He toyed with the idea of allergies as an excuse, and gave it up.

Sometimes tears were just tears, and you had to get on with it anyway.

oOo

 

“Ants told me you’d be here,” Lestrade said.

“And arranged for you to be admitted?”

“Something like that.”

Lestrade studied the other man. Mycroft sat by the hospital bed, eyes focused on the elfin features drawn sharp by pain and injury. Mary Morstan Watson was all tubes and needles and sticky patches and machines that went “ping.”

“How is she doing?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Alive. For now.”

“Odds?”

“Poor.”

“Have you told John and Sherlock?”

“And make them sit through this?”

“They won’t thank you for not telling them.”

“They won’t know unless she lives. I won’t make them face her death twice. They think she’s dead. The world thinks she’s dead. I will not place them on the rollercoaster, when in hours she may live up to everyone’s expectations.”

“You’ll ride, though.” Lestrade gave a wry grin. “And you hate rollercoasters.”

“I hate…” Mycroft closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, saying nothing more.

Lestrade came close the bed and looked at Mary Watson. She had always had a vixenish, foxy face. Her current condition emphasized it. Her nose seemed more pointed, her chin sharper, her cheekbones almost as high as Sherlock’s. Her skin was snow-pale, her hair almost as fair.

“They might prefer the gift of her last minutes.”

“They think they already have those.”

“Mike…” He turned and squatted by the chair, putting a hand on Mycroft’s knee. The other man’s hands dropped from his face. He crossed his hands over his chest, and looked away. “Mike. You’re afraid they’ll blame you.”

Mycroft’s wide mouth twitched in something that spoke more of pain than even the driest amusement. “Of course they will. They’ll do that even if she lives. It’s their default setting. It doesn’t help that Sherlock think that information may not want to be free, but it does want to be Sherlock’s.”

“Mary agreed with you that it would be better if they didn’t know until the arrest was done. Trying to get those two pig-headed men not to turn it into a scene… I mean…they’d have ‘kidnapped’ her, rather than let her go.” He snorted, remembering Sherlock’s ‘kidnap’ of John at the time of the leap from St. Bart’s, when Moriarty was making so much trouble. “You both thought this was safer and more likely to resolve well.”

“Yes. But you know they won’t process it that way. Not even if she lives.”

Lestrade sighed, not because Mycroft was being pessimistic, but because he knew perfectly well Mycroft was right. He patted the slim, bony knee under his hand. “You did the best you knew how.”

Mycroft nodded.

One of the machines started to scream, then, a light flashing. In the chaos that followed Mycroft and Lestrade were pushed out of the room. They ended up in the stairwell, smoking illicit cigarettes, Lestrade wishing desperately that Mycroft was the kind of man you could hug when he hurt.

oOo

“Little Em is asleep,” Sherlock said, as John came back in. “I gave her a jar of strained chicken and one of peaches. Washed her and tucked her in.”

“Good. Yeah. Good,” John said. His face was still shattered, empty, lost—but at least now he was alert and aware of more than his own pain. “Thanks.”

“No thanks are needed,” Sherlock said. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“You have to eat.”

John looked at Sherlock—angry, unbelieving. Frustrated. “Sherlock, don’t start. This is not the time for you to prove you’re an empathic, emotionally supportive human being.”

Something snapped. “When, then? Tell me, John—when am I supposed to care, if not now?” He gritted his teeth. “I do care about you…and it doesn’t take genius to realize now might be a proper time to offer what little I can provide.” He grimaced, and turned away. “Thai or Chinese?”

John frowned. “What’s… Sherlock?”

“Thai or Chinese, dammit.”

“Sherlock, are you…”

“No. Allergies.”

“….”

“Really. I’ve been like this all day.”

John crossed the little kitchen and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I… I forgot you love her, too.”

Sherlock shuddered under his hand. John could almost feel him fighting down the grief. After a moment he said, “Yes. Well. My favorite assassin. So. Thai or Chinese?”

John’s eyes closed, forcing out a small trail of tears. “Thai,” he said, then leaned his face against Sherlock’s back and wept.

oOo

“You could have stopped it.”

Mycroft clenched his teeth, and forced himself to count a dozen monkeys before he responded to Sherlock. “Unfortunately, no, I could not. Much as you like to suggest me to be omnipotent, I’ve not yet ascended to that status.”

“You could have told us. You could have helped her escape. Instead… You’re the one who had that case in Cambridge referred to us, aren’t you?” He glowered down at his brother, towering over the seated man behind the desk. “Just like you. I assume giving her up to the Americans was ‘expedient.’”

“It was inescapable.” Mycroft didn’t add that Mary had been the one to find the Cambridge case, or to suggest it to him as a way of deflecting Sherlock and John for the critical period. “The Agency’s under growing pressure to follow up on war crimes. Mary, in her cover identity, is among the more notorious. There were too many people wanting to make a show of her, knowing she’d cooperate happily enough for the price of an official secret pardon and an officially recognized new cover identity.”

“Oh, let me guess: arrested today, tried tomorrow, home to us with a pardon and a new background identity by Thursday.”

“There’s a reason she was only presented under her former ID,” Mycroft snapped. “Nothing to connect her to John Watson but her face, and resemblances do occur.”

“So what went wrong?” It wasn’t an honest question. The rage dripped off it like acid slime. If it had been real, it would have left holes etched into the desk. “What happened? The Agency turn on you again?”

“Actually,” Mycroft said, his own temper barely in check, “Some idiot in the Agency thought you and John would add drama to the arrest. Apparently not on the same page with the rest of us about keeping the identities separate. And you and John performed perfectly. Perfectly enough to panic Mary into trying to reach John to calm him. One of her guards panicked and thought she was escaping.”

“And the rest is written in blood.”

“As you say.”

“Tell me again—why am I supposed to respect you? You couldn’t even tell us.”

“And if I had? You’d have cooperated?” Sherlock gave Mycroft a look that made clear how likely that would have been. Mycroft sighed. “Exactly. You’d have found some way to make the dog’s dinner of it regardless. We were trying for a way that at least delayed your entrance until after all the trigger points were past.”

Sherlock was ready to explode. “If you’d keep me in the loop…”

“If you’d cooperate for ten seconds in ways I could count on…”

“Who died and made you God, Mycroft?”

“Do you have any idea how juvenile that sounds?”

“And keeping secrets and getting people killed is so much more mature?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Enough.”

“Oh, more than enough, brother-mine.” Sherlock swirled away from the desk, stalking toward the door of the office. “More than enough. If you want to contact me in future? Don’t. I doubt I’ll be seeing you again—unless Mummy decides to play sit-com and tries to trick us into Christmas Peacemaking. Knowing your opinion of Christmas I trust I can count on you to ignore her, please?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. When the door slammed behind his brother he sighed, waited, then tabbed through to Anthea. “He’s gone?”

“Like Thor in a temper, yes.”

“Good. Did you get the latest word on Mary Watson?”

“Stable. Still no indication she’s going to survive, but she’s holding.”

“Thank you.”

“DI Lestrade called. He’s offering fish and chips at the usual place. Will you be joining him?”

‘No. Yes. I…” Mycroft drew a breath, then said, firmly. “Yes. I need the time out of the office. Let him know I’ll be there at one, as usual.”

“Will do, sir.”

oOo

“He’s releasing the body to the Americans. Not that he’d tell me so. I got it out of one of his minions,” Sherlock snarled, going back to John and Mary’s. He’d not been to Baker Street in days. “We’re going to have to have a memorial, not a funeral.”

John nodded, but said nothing. Instead he dangled the plastic teething keys over Em’s crib. “That’s right, love. Grab the keys.”

“I’ve checked and we can use St. Marylebone’s on Friday next, if you’d like. Evening. It’s pretty, it’s near Baker Street.”

“Whatever,” John said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“I’ve called Janine. She said she’d be willing to serve as master of ceremonies, to spare everyone having me do it.”

“Mary would have liked that. Yes. Fine.” He ran one finger over the baby’s smooth cheek. “You can take care of it, then?”

Sherlock leaned in the door and looked at John. After a moment he said, softly, “Yeah. I can do it.”

John wouldn’t look at him. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad to do it.”

John snorted. “Marriage and funerals. You’re in the wrong profession. Should have been a priest.”

“Now, really, John…”

There was a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” John said. He brushed past Sherlock, still not looking his friend in the face. Sherlock trailed after, arriving in time to hear John say, “Hey. Greg. Good to see you.”

“Thought I’d come over, see how you were holding up.”

“Spying for Mycroft, you mean.” Sherlock scowled. “He’s too cowardly to show up himself and face the music.”

“Given what you think he deserves, is it any wonder?” Greg said, then turned his attention back on John. “And, no. No matter what Sherlock says, my main reason for coming is to see how you are. Friends, yeah?”

John paused, poised on a knife-edge, then nodded. “Friends. Come on in.”

“Not staying long,” Greg said. “Don’t want to put you to any bother, eh? Just…”

“Wanted to check up on me,” John said, completing the sentence. “Yeah. Take my temperature, check my pulse, take a few blood samples. I know the routine. Just making sure I’m all right.”

“Well you can take your own blood samples,” Greg said. “Not my thing at all. Look do you need any help with anything? Someone to watch the baby? Ride to work mornings? Meals brought in?”

“No. We’re fine. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are covering most of it,” John said, and glanced at Sherlock, who still lurked in the hallway, protective and fierce. “He’s being broody and mother-henning. But…he’s good at it.” He closed his eyes. “He’s putting together the memorial service. Friday next, didn’t you say, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“St. Marylebone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I can stay away, if you like,” Greg said, in the face of that penetrating and hostile gaze.

“Rather you came,” John said. “Don’t mind Sherlock. He’s just angry with M… with his brother. You’re being tarred by association.”

“And you?” Greg met John’s eyes, his own soft and patient but probing.

John stood straighter, and set his jaw. “I’m afraid I’m angry with him, too.”

“So…better he not come?”

“Much.”

Greg nodded, and sighed. “You’re wrong, you know. It’s not his fault. But—I’ll let him know. He won’t want to do any more harm than has already been done. Save you the effort of not-inviting him.”

“Oh, and I was so looking forward to it,” Sherlock drawled.

Greg shrugged. “Think what you will. Look, John, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. Meanwhile—my best, and I’m sorry for your loss.” He offered his hand.

John looked at it, appeared to seriously think about it, then he sighed and took it. “Thanks, Greg. I know you mean well. You’re a good friend. Better than…he…deserves, I think. But thanks.”

oOo

“Mycroft, it’s eleven at night. What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Something you couldn’t bring home with you?”

“Just easier to stay here. And what are you doing here at this hour?”

“Checking on you.”

“Waste of time. The government won’t let me collapse. If I overextend they’ll no doubt have me on saline solution and B vitamins before I can hit the carpet.”

“Mycroft…”

“Don’t, Lestrade.”

‘All right. Bring me up to date. Maybe reviewing will let you let go of it.”

“Mary’s still stable. Still not coming around. Much longer and she’s going to start losing ground just from prolonged bedrest and unconsciousness. The coffin has been returned, and Anne Grace is now officially dead. I’ve managed to complete the conversion of Mary’s records. She’s now properly, deeply Mary Marston Watson. If she ever recovers. I’ve been able to leverage the errors on the part of Novaks' team. We’ve got better support for our Ukrainian agents, and have been able to shame the Agency into providing us with a liaison with their ambassador in Turkey. I was magnanimous in the end, and let Novaks keep his position.”

“And you?”

“I am, as ever, quite precisely as ever.”

“Meaningless load of bollocks. Mike, you’re a wreck.”

“But a brilliant, capable wreck.”

“Mike, go home. Sleep.”

Mycroft failed to answer, just stared silently, listlessly into the screen of his laptop.

“Mike?”

“…”

“Mike.”

“I…don’t want to be home. When the call comes.”

“You think she’s going to die.”

“I…Yes. Even if she doesn’t. It’s easier to deal, here. My armor’s on.”

Lestrade nodded his understanding. After long minutes of silence, he said, “Is it worth it?”

“What?”

“The damned job. The secrets. The need-to-know. The person the buck stops at. Scapegoat. Sin-eater. Is it worth it?”

Mycroft shrugged, and said, softly, “You tell me. Is England worth it?”

Lestrade gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“That’s what it totals out to. Even the small secrets.”

“You did what you could, Mike. You tried to spare her—and them.”

“They’ll never see it that way. Even if she lives. She’ll forgive me. John never will. Sherlock won’t, either, even if just out of loyalty to his friend.”

Lestrade nodded, then said, softly. “Give him time.”

“He’s loyal.”

“You are, too.”

“Unfortunately, Sherlock knows that in the end, I’m most loyal to the one thing that will never repay in kind. A nation’s not a lovesome thing, I’m afraid.”

“Then you’re going to have to settle for mere friends, aren’t you?” Lestrade said, and walked around the desk and laid his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

The phone rang.

Both men stared.

“Is it…”

“The hospital,” Mycroft said. “I reserved that line for them.” He swallowed, then, and picked it up, not noticing that he’d leaned hard into the pressure of Lestrade’s hand for comfort as he answered.

oOo

The phone at John’s house rang. Once. Twice. Again. Again.

Eventually John managed to drag himself from sleep, groping for the bedside receiver. He spotted Sherlock standing, silhouetted in the door of the bedroom, eyes gummed and hair a tousled mess. “Hang on a mo’” he said into phone, then said, “I have it, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “And I have you. Answer the phone.”

John hesitated, and nodded. “Hello? Yeah. Mycroft?” He sat straight, then. “What? What?” He listened, face pale, hand shaking. Then he said, simply. “I’ll be there.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, as his friend hung up. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” John said, voice shaking. Then….”She’s alive. My Mary’s alive.” And he began to weep.

Sherlock slipped silent to the bed beside him, and put an awkward left arm around him, holding his right arm in its cast well away. John turned inward, then, and sobbed until the relief was real.

oOo

“Let it go, you silly bugger,” Lestrade said, softly, stroking the back of Mycroft’s hair. “Shhhh. Let it go.”

Mycroft never made a sound, or shed a single tear. But he leaned against Lestrade, and shook like a poplar leaf in the wind.

“She made it,” he said. “She made it.”

Lestrade just kept stroking him, until the storm passed.

 

 

                   The Thousandth Man

Rudyard Kipling  
  
---  
  
ONE man in a thousand, Solomon says.  
Will stick more close than a brother.  
And it's worth while seeking him half your days  
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend  
On what the world sees in you,   
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend   
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show   
Will settle the finding for 'ee.   
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go  
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him,   
The rest of the world don't matter;   
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim   
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk   
Than he uses yours for his spendings,   
And laugh and meet in your daily walk   
As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call   
For silver and gold in their dealings;   
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all  
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,  
In season or out of season.  
Stand up and back it in all men's sight  
With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide  
The shame or mocking or laughter,  
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side  
To the gallows-foot - and after!  
  
 


End file.
